


Adagio

by louciferish



Series: Earth Angel [2]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Angels, Fallen Angels, Fandom for Australia Fanworks Auction, Gay Bar, Light Angst, M/M, Wingfic, fallen angel AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:54:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24811150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/louciferish/pseuds/louciferish
Summary: Victor can’t sleep in Yuuri’s living room indefinitely, but, staring down at him in the darkness, Yuuri finds himself at a loss to think of where else Victor might go. He’s Fallen now. With no warning or explanation of why, he’s woken up in a strange world. If anyone can understand that feeling, it should be Yuuri.But Victor has something Yuuri didn’t: a name.Yuuri’sname, and there must be some reason for that too. Right now, Yuuri isn’t sure what that could be, but it’s probably not that he owns the world’s most comfortable futon.
Relationships: Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov
Series: Earth Angel [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1729858
Comments: 11
Kudos: 71
Collections: Fandom For Australia





	Adagio

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hufflehobbit_writes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hufflehobbit_writes/gifts).



> This was ready for posting a couple weeks ago, but in the midst of anti-racism protests throughout the world and a demand for fundamental human rights for _all_ people, updating my fanfics didn't seem to be of critical importance.
> 
> I have to do it eventually, though, and it seems in 2020 there's never a "good" time. 
> 
> I hope, in the midst of protests and pandemics, you can find some comfort in fandom spaces still.

The shrill cry of Yuuri’s alarm jolts him from sleep. He sits up, patting at the bedside table for his phone, and manages to fumble it off before falling back into the pillow with a _whump_. His eyes close again, though he knows he shouldn’t let them. He’s still so tired, eyelids heavy and aching, and the faded memory of a dream wraps around him. 

What had it been? Something of Heaven, he thinks, but also not, and then there was someone else there, lost. They’d been walking the pathways, speaking and smiling, and then--

He’d Fallen, hadn’t he?

Victor. 

Yuuri’s eyes fly open again. He’s groggy, yes, but he’s also pretty certain that Victor wasn’t a dream. 

Still, he needs to check. It’s pitch black in his bedroom, but he knows the way by feel alone. He sits on the edge of the bed and finds the flat, stiff carpet with his toes. The one small window in his bedroom is covered with a thick curtain, silver duct tape melding it to the wall on each side to keep out the red glare from the nightclub sign across the street. 

Below the window, Yuuri finds his clothing chair and grabs the two items splayed across the seat. He pulls on the leggings first, then the old t-shirt over his head. The pants are too small through the thigh, clinging painfully to him, and the shirt, oversized, hangs near his knees--the joy of donation pile clothing at _La Ropa Usada_.

He opens the bedroom door slowly, hand tight on the knob to minimize noise, and tiptoes out. 

Light spills into the living room through the windows, most of it from the street lamp outside, but with a tinge of orange threaded through from a slowly rising sun. It illuminates the lumpy figure slumped across Yuuri’s futon. Victor, face slack with sleep, could have been ripped from a mural by one of Earth’s great masters. His silvery hair spills across his forehead and down his body like a second, shining blanket. His nose slopes down to a pair of parted, plump lips. It’s the sort of face that’s inspired generations of poets, artists, and saints to religious ecstasy.

He’s not a dream. That’s unfortunate.

Dreams, both pleasant and disturbing, are something Yuuri can let go of in the morning. He can pick up, shake off the night’s travels, and start the day anew, unaffected. Real things, however, require attention, time… food. 

Victor can’t sleep in Yuuri’s living room indefinitely, but, staring down at him in the darkness, Yuuri finds himself at a loss to think of where else Victor might go. He’s Fallen now. With no warning or explanation of why, he’s woken up in a strange world. If anyone can understand that feeling, it should be Yuuri.

But Victor has something Yuuri didn’t: a name. _Yuuri’s_ name, and there must be some reason for that too. Right now, Yuuri isn’t sure what that could be, but it’s probably not that he owns the world’s most comfortable futon.

Victor frowns in his sleep, furrows marring his wide forehead, and he nuzzles into the pillow. Realizing he’s been staring, Yuuri shakes his head and backs away from the futon. He kneels by the front door to lace on his running shoes. The answers to Yuuri’s questions aren’t likely to be hidden in the indentation above Victor’s upper lip.

He’s not going to find them lying in the gutter on the street either, but at least a run will get his brain moving faster. 

Yuuri pauses in the act of locking the door. The bolt will be loud, and Victor doesn’t have a key if he somehow gets locked out. _Where do people go to get copies of keys made?_

 _Not worth worrying about_ , Yuuri reminds himself. His run won’t take long, and Victor won’t be staying very long either. He can leave it unlocked for now. He slips the key in his jacket pocket and jogs down the steps. 

The morning sky is still navy blue where it isn’t orange, and the streets are almost empty. Cars rest on either side of the road, engines cool, and in the buildings all around their owners begin to wake and slowly move through their homes. This early, there’s no sound on the street but cooing pigeons in their roosts and the rhythmic thump of Yuuri’s sneakers on the sidewalk.

Once or twice on his route, he passes a bleary-eyed human in hospital scrubs or a grease-stained jumpsuit, just returning home at the end of a long night, and nods in acknowledgement. They look back at him out the sides of their dark eyes, suspicious of anyone else out so early. Yuuri can’t blame them for that. He wouldn’t trust himself either.

His runs are normally pretty short, just enough to get himself moving in the mornings and inspire him to keep going. Back in his first days on Earth, when he hadn’t yet learned to sleep, he’d gone out wandering and spotted someone else out on a morning jog. Curious, bored, and at loose ends, he’d given it a try one morning despite thrift store jeans and flat-soled shoes, and found he liked it.

It’s not surprising, in retrospect. He’d been such a wreck when he arrived, he’d latch onto anything that provided the barest distraction. Without an answer as to what he’d done to cause his Fall, Yuuri’s mind would turn over every moment he could recall, wondering what did him in. Was it a brief flash of jealousy? That question he asked that made the others look at him a little too long? 

Minako had finally broken him of it over coffee, or at least tried to. _“There’s no point in wondering,” she told him, tearing open her fifth sugar packet with her teeth. “You’re here now, and there’s no going back from that. You need to learn to move forward.”_

Yuuri had taken her literally. For a while, it helped.

But today Yuuri stays out on the road longer than usual. He makes a second lap of the block, then a third, although his thighs are burning and his breath comes in shattered gasps. Still, he can’t outrun the questions. What could he have done? Even more alarming, what could _Victor_ have possibly done to deserve a Fall? _What’s going on up there?_

He gives up halfway through his fourth lap and walks the rest of the way back home, cutting through an alley that runs past the back of the building, where he can still see the squares of darker-shaded brick covering boarded up windows.

The apartment door is still unlocked, but not hanging from its hinge, so Yuuri takes that as good sign. Yuuri toes off his shoes on the mat, then carries them inside, but his effort to be quiet is pointless--there’s no one on the futon. 

He drops his sneakers, combing the living room with his eyes a second time. The door was closed, but Yuuri was gone a long time. His heart, already pounding from the run, beats ever faster as he reaches for his shoes again. If Victor went out looking for him, if he’s out alone on the street again, then--

“Yuuri?”

Victor’s voice cuts through Yuuri’s budding panic and leaves him standing, one shoe dangling from his hand, the wheels in his head still spinning. It takes a few deep breaths before the edge of fear prickling his skin begins to recede, his pulse slowing to a more reasonable pace.

The bathroom door stands ajar at the end of the hallway, yellow-tinged fluorescent light spilling out through the gap, and Yuuri would have _noticed_ that if he’d only looked a bit harder before letting his worries take the reins.

“Is everything alright?” he asks from the hall, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. 

In answer, Victor pushes open the bathroom door. There’s a clatter as Yuuri drops the shoe he forgot he was holding.

Victor is naked again, surrounded by a cloud of steam. A sheen of moisture from the shower still coats his skin, and his hair hangs in darkened clumps. It’s not the nudity that shocks Yuuri, though. It’s the wings. 

Folded, they fill Yuuri’s tiny apartment bathroom. Outstretched, they’d span most of his living area. Victor had taken them out yesterday, but Yuuri had been too shocked by the _silver_ of them to notice much else, and Victor had packed them away shortly after. Now, in the sickly light of the bathroom fixture, Yuuri can see the change that’s occurred in full. 

Victor’s wings were always incredible. Yuuri remembers them before his Fall in meticulous detail. So often in those days he was trailing after Victor or standing far behind him, so he was treated to many views of the back of Victor’s head, the spread and flutter of a wing as he talked and gestured with his whole being. Yuuri can still perfectly envision the way sunlight would make the gold edges of those alabaster feathers flare, highlighting streaks and veins of pearl among the petal-pink primaries that dragged the ground behind Victor when folded and relaxed.

The gold is entirely gone now, subsumed in the ashy silver that’s replaced the white. Where Yuuri recalls rose tones at the tips of Victor’s longest feathers, there’s a pink so deep and rich that it edges toward red. In contrast to Yuuri’s white tile floor, it darkens to a bloodstain.

Victor twists, back to the wide mirror over the sink, and partly unfurls his left wing, craning his neck to look over his shoulder. Most of the mirror is unusable, clouded with steam, but there are streaks through the middle, handprints where Victor tried to swipe the fog away.

“Can you get this for me?” Victor frowns, brow furrowed in concentration. He twists the other direction and tries in vain to reach behind his own back. “There’s a ruffled bit just… there. I can _feel_ it, but I can’t--”

He looks back at Yuuri, lake blue eyes entreating, but Yuuri can only stare at the reflected tips of those fluttering feathers. 

“I’ll do yours,” Victor offers, as if he’s suggesting they trade shifts at work or omelette recipes. The words drench Yuuri with reality, and he yanks himself out of Victor’s reflection, back into the moment. 

“I have to… make breakfast,” Yuuri mumbles. He steps back, pulls the bathroom door shut behind him, and flees to the kitchen. 

The faux wood countertops are warm beneath his palms as Yuuri leans on them, head down. He closes his eyes, and Victor’s wings flash and stretch behind his eyelids. _”I’ll do yours.”_ Yuuri bites the tip of his tongue to keep his frustration inside. 

Yuuri’s been Fallen for months now. In two days, he’s seen more of Victor’s post-Fall wings than he has his own. He’d prefer to keep it that way. 

It’s too warm, or maybe Yuuri’s clothes are just too tight. The apartment feels suffocating with someone else inside it, and Yuuri reaches for the little window at the back of his narrow kitchen, heaving at it with everything he has until it gives up and opens a couple centimeters, screeching in protest. The cool air spilling through the gap turns Yuuri’s skin to ice where it touches, chilling the sweat from his run.

Normally he’d take a shower right after getting home, but, well, he won’t be going in the bathroom any time soon. 

That means there’s no excuse not to start on that breakfast he promised. 

Maybe by saying “make breakfast,” he’s already oversold what he’s about to do. Yuuri hasn’t been living human-style all that long, and feeding himself has been one of the biggest adjustments. He still hasn’t gotten the hang of consistently remembering to eat regular meals and tends to swing wildly from not eating at all to gorging himself. At home, he avoids using anything more complicated than the toaster, and even that is a struggle some days. 

When Yuuri opens the fridge, he’s greeted by a familiar sight: a few aging basics crowded out by stacks of take-out containers, two deep. He’d probably be more ambitious in learning to cook if his job wasn’t next door to half a dozen restaurants with employees happy to trade leftovers at the end of a shift.

What would Victor want to eat? Yuuri can’t exactly ask him, since he probably doesn’t even know himself. One thing’s certain: no one’s first meal on Earth should be cold, soggy pub fries. 

But the other options are limited, at best. Excavating behind the second level of styrofoam boxes and crusty condiment bottles, he uncovers the tail end of a loaf of bread and seizes that and the butter. He owns a toaster. He can do this--hopefully without setting off a smoke detector this time. 

By the time Victor emerges from the bathroom, there are two slices of toast with butter and honey waiting for him on the table, along with a cup of tea. Yuuri’s own toast is long gone--he _had_ burned it a little, but he’d gobbled up the evidence.

“Is that for me?” Victor asks, sounding eager. Yuuri turns to find him standing by the futon, still swiping at his wet hair with a damp towel. At least he knows enough about life among humans to dress himself properly, though “proper” may not be the word for it. He’s back in his ripped jeans from before, but at some point he’s also gone through Yuuri’s things and found a t-shirt for himself. It fits him about as well as it fits Yuuri, which is not at all. On Yuuri, it’s somewhat oversized. On Victor, it’s plastered to his skin through the chest and bulges around his biceps.

“I already ate mine.”

Victor smiles, abandoning his towel over the back of the futon, and slides into the only chair at the card table next to Yuuri’s kitchen that doubles as an extra counter space and mail catcher. He picks up one slice of the toast and peers at it, turning it toward the light.

Angels have no need for food, though those that visit Earth have been known to try bites anyway. The vessels they use are only temporary, easily abused and then discarded at the end of a day or two. The Fallen, in contrast, have physical forms, and while they aren’t strictly human, a body has needs. 

Victor sets down the first slice and picks up the other, squirming in his chair when he gingerly touches the side of his mug and feels the heat radiating off the tea.

Yuuri can’t help smiling at little at Victor’s reaction. He remembers having similar feelings himself, his first time trying food. He can also remember how _terrible_ he felt a few hours later. 

“Go slowly. Be careful not to eat too much if your body isn’t hungry.” There’s a lesson Yuuri’s learned the hard way for himself, more than once.

Despite the warning, Victor makes pretty quick work of the toast. Yuuri focuses on washing up his own plate and mug, the running water drowning out some of Victor’s muffled sounds of enjoyment. 

Yuuri’s first meal on Earth had been a much better selection than almost-burned toast and honey, at least. One of the first things Minako did after scooping him up was drag him to a ramen bar up the street from her place. Content as Victor seems to be here, he’d be much better off with Minako.

So why is he here?

Yuuri shuts off the tap and dries his hands as he gathers up the right words for an overdue question. “Victor,” he begins carefully, “how did you get my name?”

Victor, caught swiping honey from the rim of his plate, sticks two fingers in his mouth, rendering his response unintelligible. He sucks the last hint of sweetness from the digits before pulling them from his lips with a _pop_.

“I don’t remember much,” he repeats. “I don’t remember a cause or being sentenced, but as I Fell, there was a voice.”

“A voice in your head, or out loud?”

Victor shakes his head. “I don’t know. I only remember what it said: _Find Yuuri_.”

“Was it familiar at all?” Yuuri tries again. “Was there anything else? Please, if you can remember…”

But Victor’s distant expression doesn’t change. “ _Find Yuuri_ ,” he repeats. “And I did. Yuuri, you’re all I have.”

-

Monday morning is the worst shift to draw when you work at a bar, which is why it ends up on Yuuri’s schedule every week. As the newest barback on staff, he always gets the last choice of hours, but he can’t complain. It’s that, or no job at all, and even ex-angels have to pay rent these days.

The sidewalks have reopened, so Yuuri is free to take his usual route, and he’s happy to avoid the church after the last time. Four blocks beyond where he found Victor is Fawn Avenue, where the street widens. Here, the pavement is even. Here, the businesses have soft curtains in the windows and bright-colored signs. When the weather is nice, they leave their doors propped open and put metal bowls full of dog treats on the curb.

Yuuri works on the corner of Fawn and Dodger Trail. He’s heard Emanuel refer to it as the line between heaven and hell, and while Yuuri would never go that far, he can understand the impulse. Crossing the street on Fawn is like passing into a different dimension. 

It’s this quality, he suspects, that birthed the name of the club where he works: World’s End. 

Yuuri’s first thought, walking in the door for his interview, was that there weren’t as many trumpets as he’d expected. There’s a whole lot more bass, though. And rainbows.

Today, when he arrives for his shift, he finds his coworker already inside. The stereo system is belting out Britney Spears’ greatest hits, and Emanuel croons along in the key of everything flat, twitching his hips in a pair of painted on, high-waist acid wash jeans and a crop top splashed with baby blue, white, and pink. There’s not a cleaning product in sight.

“You don’t work Mondays,” Yuuri says, stopped in the doorway and unashamedly staring. 

Emanuel looks back over his shoulder at Yuuri, dark doe eyes beneath cherub-curled black hair, and a small smirk tilts his thin lips. “I do today. Good _morning_.”

Yuuri grabs the manager keys from a hook behind the bar and stalks to the bathrooms without dignifying that with a response. Whether Emanuel participates or not, Yuuri has work to do.

As long as he’s scrubbing the bathrooms, he’s left alone, as expected. He likes Emanuel. _Everyone_ likes Emanuel. He’s a nice guy--friendly, charming, and bright. He’s also a huge princess and the worst gossip Yuuri’s ever met, and Yuuri isn’t up for that stream of chatter this early in the morning. 

He takes a break after spraying everything with bleach, pulling his t-shirt up to cover his nose and mouth as he fishes his phone out from his back pocket. It’s after ten now, so Minako should be awake regardless of what she was doing last night.

He hesitates over the keyboard, considering what to say. His last text from Minako was last week, and there was nothing more to it than their usual check-in. He has no idea what she’ll think of Yuuri’s current situation.

Better to keep things simple and straightforward. 

_I found Victor yesterday  
If you were looking  
He’s at my place for now_

Texts sent, Yuuri sticks the phone back into his pocket, grabs a sponge from the bleach bucket, and sets to scrubbing the bathroom until it’s… as clean as the men’s room in a fifty year-old gay bar is ever going to get. 

When he’s done and his arms have been scalded with hot water and soap up to the elbow, he wipes his hands on his jeans and takes his phone out again. The message icon flashes at him insistently.

_Victor?  
Victor is here?  
Yuuri???  
What’s this about?_

Well, that answers some of his questions. It’s a start, at least. Two missed calls show at the top of his screen--both Minako, of course--so he taps that rather than text back. 

The call picks up after one ring. 

“Yuuri, are you okay?” Minako’s voice is frantic, but hushed. There’s background noise cutting in, something rhythmic, but Yuuri can’t place it. “What’s this about Victor?”

“Victor’s Fallen,” Yuuri says flatly. “I found him out yesterday, near my neighborhood. He’s safe at my apartment right now. You weren’t looking for him?”

“No.” He can hear the frown in Minako’s voice. “Our contacts Upstairs didn’t mention anything about Victor Falling--you’re sure it’s really him?”

 _Who else could it be?_ Yuuri wants to snap, or, _You think I wouldn’t know?_ Instead, he only says. “Yes. I’m sure. When can you come get him?”

More background noises, louder this time, and if Minako says anything there then Yuuri can’t hear it. When she cuts back in, it’s with, “--don’t have anything right now. I’m sorry. Let me check with some people, and… I’ll call you back later?”

“Sure.” It’s not as if Yuuri has a choice. As soon as the word leaves his mouth, Minako disconnects the call.

Gathering up the supplies he needs, Yuuri backs out of the bathroom. The bar is remarkably quiet, music barely audible, but when Emauel spots Yuuri, he abruptly cranks it back up. 

“All done in there?” Emanuel calls brightly as Yuuri surveys the bar. Despite his avoidance of the bathrooms, he’s been working. The bar and tables are all glistening, and the mirror behind their towers of liquor bottles is actually clean enough to work as a mirror for once.

“You know, it’s impolite to eavesdrop,” Yuuri answers blandly. “If that call was for you, I would have let you know.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about, sweetie. Would you rather sweep or mop?”

“Sweep.”

Emanuel hands him the bucket. “Wrong answer.” 

From his back pocket, Yuuri’s phone chimes loudly. He fishes it out and scans the new message--Minako apologizing again for not being prepared for Victor. Yuuri sighs before tucking the phone away again. It’s a big city. Hopefully she can find somewhere else quickly.

“First a phone call, and now a text. Next thing we know you’ll have a full dance card,” Emanuel says slyly. Yuuri rolls his eyes and dunks the mop in the blue plastic bucket, ignoring the remark. “You missed out on a good shift yesterday. Is something wrong?”

Beneath the teasing, there’s a note of real concern in the other man’s voice, and it plucks the guilt strings in Yuuri’s heart. Emanuel would make a great spy if he ever decided to use his powers for evil. Much as Yuuri knows that the man is a gossip, and that anything he gives Emanuel will be little more than a few minutes of entertainment, the slightest hint of genuine worry makes him pause. If Emanuel is really concerned about Yuuri, giving him the silent treatment would be cruel.

Yuuri has to take a moment to consider how to phrase the information, leaning on the mop and watching the puddle beneath it slowly spread.

“Someone came back into my life suddenly yesterday,” he says finally, “and he needs a place to stay for a little while. I’m trying to find someone else who can take him.”

“Oh?” Emanuel’s spark is lit again, just like that. He grins, baring white teeth as he leans on the bar with both elbows, the broom well out of reach. “Is this someone like an ex? Or maybe… a future?”

“No, nothing like that,” Yuuri says quickly, “more like--” Then, he has to stop again. What _is_ it like? Human relationships are complicated things, and Yuuri’s learned the hard way to be careful how he refers to those in his life. Once, he had introduced Minako to some of the bartenders as his sister. She’d loved it, but he had to deal with a large number of impossible-to-answer questions afterward.

“He’s someone I knew in school, but not very well.”

“A crush?” Emanuel’s grin spreads.

 _Crush?_ It’s one of those human words Yuuri doesn’t know well. “Maybe,” he answers, because it seems safest. “We haven’t spoken in a long time.” 

Yuuri’s phone rings again, breaking him free of what was no doubt going to be a painfully long conversation. “Just a minute. I have to--” he gestures to the phone and then hands the mop over to Emanuel before rushing to the door, out to the sidewalk where, perhaps, he can talk to Minako in peace.

“Hello?” There’s a beat of silence on the line when Yuuri answers. It stretches too long. “Minako?”

“Yuuri.”

The voice is nasal, and the tone clipped. Not Minako. Yuuri swallows.

Lilia.

A fluttering thing is trapped in the hollow between Yuuri’s ribs. He’s always known Minako was working with the First Fallen--she’d mentioned it over that initial coffee meeting after he Fell--but he’s never actually spoken with Lilia himself. He didn’t know anyone could, aside from Minako.

“M-- Ma’am.” His voice cracks, throat dry. It can’t be good news that’s prompting this phone call.

“My associate tells me you’ve caught a fallen star.”

Yuuri knows instantly what she means. He can’t think of a better way to describe Victor himself. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Tell me about it.” Yuuri gives her the same basic information he relayed to Minako, only to be met with a displeased hum. “Try again,” Lilia says. “More details, this time. The whole story.”

Straightening his back, Yuuri leans up against the outside of the bar and starts over. This time, he begins with his walk to work and tells it all: the church, the youths, the eyes of the stained glass angel. He means to stop the story with Victor arriving at his apartment, but Lilia hums again and the rest spills forth, words coming in a flood until he reaches this morning and the pathetic little breakfast.

“He’s the same as me,” Yuuri finishes, then second-guesses himself. “Well, not the same, of course. He’s _Victor_ , and I’m just-- But, he doesn’t remember why he Fell either. He only knows that someone told him to find me, and now he’s… here.”

“I see,” Lilia says. “Yes. Very good.”

 _Very good?_ There’s nothing good about it at all. “But I can’t help him,” Yuuri snaps, frustration boiling over. “I don’t know why he came looking for me, but I don’t know any more than he does! I need you to find somewhere else he can go… please.” His rant peters off as his anger burns away and he remembers who he’s speaking to.

The line is silent, then Lilia says simply, “I’m afraid we can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“We’re not prepared to take in Victor.”

“But this is what you _do_!” Yuuri slaps the wall behind him uselessly, feeling the sting of the rough brick on his palm. It feels like regret.

Lilia sighs deeply, breath puffing against the speaker. “No. We won’t be taking him. This is the best outcome. Victor was told to find you, and he has. Look after him as best you can, and maybe you can learn the why of it with time.”

Before Yuuri can raise a protest, she continues, “We have contacts still in Heaven. I will talk to them. We will do what we can so you both can find the answers you seek.”

Yuuri opens his mouth, a jumble of questions in his head threatening to spill out, but then the phone beeps twice. Lilia is gone. 

With no other recourse, Yuuri slips his phone back into his pocket and goes inside to finish mopping.

**Author's Note:**

> The next part I've been working on will be a new chapter to "Aria," but it won't be a second chapter. XD It's going to be a chapter one, while the current version of Aria will become chapter 2/2. 
> 
> From that point, two additional stories taking place _after_ Aria are planned for this universe.


End file.
